Biscuit Risk-it.
I accidentally
left my mum’s biscuit barrel in her garden for a fortnight.
I didn’t realise this until today, when I went to pick up my mum's dog from the place he stays when she's away on holiday. No sooner had I unlatched the gate than I saw
it sitting on the table, slightly damp, almost taunting me for forgetting it.
It had been outside
for two weeks. That’s fourteen days, or three hundred and thirty six
hours, or twenty thousand one hundred and sixty minutes. I could keep breaking
up the time into its bare components, but I won’t. Let’s just say it was in the garden for longer than a biscuit barrel should be.
A cookie jar
isn’t meant to face the elements. It’s not in its remit. That’s what you have a
house for: to provide the requisite shelter for your biscuits. You could keep them al fresco for a weekend at most, but I wouldn’t recommend it.
As I lifted the
lid I feared the worst. What mushy, crumbly horror would be revealed? I needn’t
have worried. They were in mint condition; it was like they’d been
stored in a hermetically-sealed environment.
That biscuit
tin is hardcore.